


Drinking Games

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [13]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst? What angst? There's no angst here., Author's been watching Cake Boss episodes and it shows, Basically all the female extras mentioned in this are from the Batman: Subzero movie, Bruce Wayne is Brucie Wayne, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Everyone say Colorado~, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Galas, Gen, I own Calvin though. He is my child now., Slice of Life, That one fic where Tim tries to steal drinks at galas because he wants attention, Thomas Wayne skiing by: i'M a GiRaFfE, Tim Drake is newly adopted and bored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Tim thoroughly enjoys cramping Bruce's playboy style.





	Drinking Games

Whoever invented buttercream frosting deserves all the good in the world, Tim decides as he weeds another icing rose off the top of his cake. Desserts are the only thing keeping Tim sane at these galas anymore. The saddest part of that statement is that it's only been a week since Bruce informed the press of his adopted son.

One week.

And Tim has wasted away to this.

Most of the craze surrounding the newest Wayne has already died out, leaving Tim crouched over a bar counter with thankfully-unpinched cheeks and a plate loaded with the night's latest confectionery. The cake must've cost at least a thousand by the number of tiers it has. Bless the poor bakers who made it, because they probably would be crying with the way Tim is dissecting his slice into piles of fondant, icing, and cake. Tim isn't even doing it because he's in the mood to be picky. Far from it. The cake dissection is purely because he is so, so bored.

Tim instantly promises himself that he's going to smash his face into the next slice he gets, appearances be damned. At least it'd liven up the night.

As if in reply, a hand slams onto the bartop next to him. "Another _dur_-ink, pleasee!"

Tim quickly stuffs a forkful of icing into his mouth to keep his groan internal. _Not this guy again_, he pleads. _Anyone but him._ Naturally, though, Tim turns, and Murphy's Law spits in his face.

The person next to him is the same sop it's been all night. ("Calvin," he'd slurred-introduced himself three drinks ago, sloppy handshake and all.) Embarrassingly, the more martinis the man orders, the more clothing he undoes. At first it was just a loosening of the tie, but by now, his cummerbund is dangling awkwardly off his elbows like it's a mink stole and he's a wealthy duchess guilty of having murdered her husband.

Tim's nose scrunches when Calvin deposits himself onto the neighboring stool. (Tim doesn't deserve this. No one does.) "I'mm gonna do it," Calvin declares to the bartender wandering by, some young guy who looks just as miserable as Tim does about the whole thing. "I'm gonna ask her."

"I'm sure you will," the bartender replies wisely, brandishing a new glass before mixing together something that looks notably weaker that a martini—probably an addington. Tim's betting Calvin's too far gone to even notice the color difference. The bartender, however, isn't taking chances and quickly scampers off. He shoots Tim an apologetic look as he does so. (_Good luck_, it says.)

"Ya don't think I will, do ya?" Calvin accuses Tim instantly, hunching over the bartop close enough that Tim can smell the alcohol on his breath. The teenager swallows down his cake to respond, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Calvin bangs his palm on the counter again, sloshing the contents of his untouched drink. "Well, I don't have ta take this!" he belts, twizzler-ing himself up from his seat. "I'll show ya!" And without further ado, he zig-zags his way into the crowd, one drunk man against the world.

Tim watches him go with wide eyes, praying for the sorry soul the man has taken an interest in. That's when Tim notices his adoptive father across the ballroom. Bruce is chatting up a new pair of pretty eyes near the orchestra, laughing in a way that looks so genuine that it's obviously fake.

Tim's face sours, and he forces himself to turn back to his dessert. He knew Bruce was different at galas. It keeps up the playboy persona. It's necessary. But most importantly, seeing Bruce laugh and talk about his bad golf score makes Tim break out in hives. (Honestly, Tim knows full-well Bruce has excellent golf form. Just the other night some street runner brought a five-iron to a fist fight and earned himself a club sandwich.) It wouldn't be so bad if Tim didn't have to don a monkey suit and tag along, but the teen's been the main attraction for the past few charity events, so it's not really up for debate.

Tim sighs and stabs at a layer of fondant. The sugar rush fizzling in his bloodstream makes this all worth it, he convinces himself. Really, though, he has no clue how people get through these things year after year, let alone how they actually keep coming back.

Tim scrunches his mouth and side-eyes the spilled alcohol glistening on the table. _That's probably how._ What better way to get through an upper-class game of chicken than with a shot of liquid courage? Tim sighs again, debating whether or not to give it a whirl. Ultimately, he pulls the glass closer, staring into it as if it has an answer for him—which unless the answer is a lemon wedge, that'll be a no. Tim pulls his head back to glean the room for any staff that would call out a sixteen-year-old on sneaking a sip. No one's around.

"To my only friend," Tim toasts to his puddle of cake, raising the glass before moving to down it. Tim's skin instantly crawls when a shadow falls over him.

"Think they forgot to give you a soda, sport," a saccharine voice oozes as none other than Brucie Wayne leans around to greet Tim and smoothly removes the glass from his grip. Tim falters for a second, immediately scouring the floor for a pentagram or a transmutation circle, because for all intents and purposes, Bruce has appeared out of thin air. But here the man is like a demon summoned, beckoning a bartender over to order a coke with his playboy grin in place.

"Oh, Brucie," the man's date croons, coming over to Tim's other side. (Tim's starting to feel claustrophobic from the sudden onset of attention.) "Can't you let the kid have a little fun?"

"He can have all the drinks he wants to when he's twenty-one, Debra," Bruce says lightly, but the look he sticks Tim with is nothing if not a parental warning. It's weird, because Bruce has been leaving Tim to his own devices for the past week. Looks like alcohol is the only thing, quite literally, off the table.

The observation sparks a brilliant idea in Tim's mind, thousands of little fireworks that promise much more entertaining galas in the future. The teen takes a second to bask in his own genius as Bruce proceeds to all but solder a new, alcohol-less glass into his son's hands.

Debra's been observing the display with a cheek resting fondly on her knuckles. "Never would've pegged you for a helicopter parent. Just make sure to leave him some breathing room, okay?"

"Don't worry," Tim cuts in with a devious smirk directed at Bruce. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Debra laughs innocently and starts tugging her suddenly unwilling quarry away. Tim waves them off with his glass, not even flinching when Bruce's "Brucie" act fades into a tamer variety of the batglare. He manages to mouth one thing to his son before being swallowed up by socialites: "Don't you dare."

* * *

Tim dares.

He's been daring every gala, every chance, for the past month. The only time Tim isn't pushing the limit is when events are hosted at Wayne Manor, and that's because of one man named Alfred Pennyworth. Instead, Tim resorts to sneaking drinks at every other venue. Naturally, it doesn't work, as Bruce appears per usual, and Tim's beginning to love the extra attention.

"What a good idea, kiddo," Bruce praises as he swoops in from behind and steals the champagne flutes out of his son's hands. "Getting drinks for Ronnie and I. You really shouldn't have."

"Oh, but I did," Tim counters with an equally fake grin. He manages to make it sound as if he wasn't planning on slinking away to figure out what Dom Pérignon tastes like. It's not that big of a deal, really. Tim's learned by now to have a backup plan, and sleighting drinks off trays has been old news for a while.

The teen makes to slip away when Bruce shows that he's also learned something over the course of the past month.

"Wait a second. Why don't you let me introduce you two?" Bruce proposes. He doesn't leave it up for debate, as he immediately traps Tim there by locking an arm around his shoulders, both hands still occupied by champagne flutes. It's a wonder how he doesn't spill anything.

"Veronica Vreeland," a redhead introduces, accepting the drink Bruce hands her. Tim's seen her around before, because she's usually first in line to weave her elbow through Bruce's. Tim's never had the pleasure of a conversation before, however. "Bruce and I are old friends, although I was surprised as anyone to hear he'd started a family. I trust you've been keeping him on his toes."

Tim beams. "You have no idea."

Veronica hums consideringly, glancing between the two of them like she knows there's something going over her head. She decides to put off asking for the moment and goes for the kill instead. "Sounds like a story I'd love to hear some time. For the moment, though, I was hoping I could have your dad alone for a little while, Tim. Bruce's dance card fills up fast these days."

Bruce looks mildly betrayed (She's unknowingly abetting Tim's cause.), but the teenager of the group pounces on the opportunity. "Sure thing," Tim says, extricating himself from Bruce's clutches. "I'll be around if you want to talk more later."

Tim soaks in the image of a foiled Bruce getting dragged to the dance floor for the fifth time that night, the man's playboy persona coming back to bite him. It's a small victory, because the teen knows he'll be seeing him again in about thirty minutes when Tim makes his next move. Until then, the teen bides his time, making small talk and testing the hors d'oeuvres. A few familiar faces are here, so Tim feels confident in knowing who to chat with and who to avoid. Tim's in the middle of talking to a nice woman named Buffy (He's forever indebted to her for introducing him to panna cotta.) when Tim excuses himself to put his second plan into action.

It's not too convoluted, honestly, but Bruce squints over his dance partner's shoulder anyway when Tim re-enters his view with an innocuous slice of cake. It's been Tim's go-to from day one. Basically harmless. Except it's not.

That's because Tim paid the caterer to add rum cake to the menu.

It actually smells amazing. The bundt's been laced with confectioner's sugar, nutmeg, and probably cinnamon, too. _So this is what success smells like_, Tim thinks to himself as he flops down at an open table. He tries to identify which part is most saturated with rum but ultimately just decides to take a stab and see where it gets him.

Tim flinches when his fork connects with—not his rum cake—but his regularly scheduled torte.

"Looks good," Bruce comments from where he's now magically sitting next to Tim. The appearance is expected, but Tim gawks when the man digs into Tim's rightfully-earned spoils, having switched out Tim's plate with lightning-quick reflexes. Bruce nods when he takes a bite. "Mm, definitely good. Not enough rum to get you drunk, though, Tim. Nice try."

Tim scoffs playfully before slumping back in his chair and picking at his dessert. A few stragglers are still having a go at the dance floor to some Bobby Darin hit, and it's easy to lapse into a comfortable silence, watching people swoon over each other and enjoy themselves. It's the most time Tim and Bruce have spent together outside of masks in a long while, and Tim can't hide the fact that he's secretly smiling.

* * *

"I think we both know this has gone on long enough."

"What do you mean?" Tim asks, feigning innocence from where he's lounging on the camelback sofa in Bruce's study. In truth, he doesn't think his gala gallivanting has gone on nearly long enough, but Tim will play the 'pure child' card until he has better footing in the conversation.

At the moment, it's month number two of Tim running Bruce's playboy persona into the ground. Tim's distantly surprised it took the man this long to address what's been going on at each and every charity event they've attended, because Bruce has never mentioned it when they get home or even when they're out as Batman and Robin. Apparently, Tim's most recent ploy of siccing Selina Kyle on him got Bruce to reconsider laying some ground rules.

Bruce links his fingers together over his desk, expression business-like and closer to the way Tim knows him in reality. "It's become apparent to me that we need to talk about some...things."

"Uh-huh," Tim drones, kicking his feet up onto an ottoman and crossing his arms.

Bruce stalls. He obviously was expecting Tim to give him more to work with, because they engage in a brief staring contest that's interrupted only by the crackle of the fireplace. "Well," Bruce restarts a minute later, still awkward and tentative. "I've been thinking that, in light of recent events, perhaps I've been somewhat unfair to you."

Tim's mouth almost falls open in pure shock. Maybe it actually does, because Bruce gives him a moment to recover before continuing.

"I understand that fundraisers and black-tie events aren't exactly the most enjoyable. Believe it or not, I often feel the same myself. Nonetheless, I appreciate you having attended as many of them as you have. So, with that being said…" The man reaches down to riffle through a drawer, letting the gesture speak for itself as he produces a bottle and sets it on the desk.

"What's that?" Tim asks blankly, sitting up straight to get a better view; he wants to ensure that he's not seeing things.

"A peace offering."

Tim didn't know bottles of chartreuse were common peace offerings, but he's too stunned to argue the point. The silver cap suggests that it's an older make—expensive, and Tim just barely manages to glance up for further explanation.

"My father was a collector, actually," Bruce reminisces a hint of fondness in his voice that Tim hasn't heard before. "I've never had any myself, but he always liked this kind, I remember. Had it in hot cocoa of all things when he went on a ski trip in France."

Tim's brain is still ten steps behind, so his involuntary systems take over and ask the first thing that comes to mind. "Your dad skied?"

Bruce laughs smally at that, an authentic, clear happiness ringing. "There are pictures somewhere around here. Alfred tells me he wasn't very good but loved it anyway." The smile fades a fraction, bittersweet as Bruce turns the bottle over in his hands. "You would've liked him. I imagine he and my mother would've wanted to meet you very much."

Tim's eyes widen faintly, expression somber but attentive. It's been two months, but he hasn't really thought of himself as a Wayne before. It was more a convenience, a legality that put Bruce's mind at ease. The humbling nature of having another lineage to live up to sobers the air.

Bruce inhales sharply, signalling a conversation shift. "Anyway, I figured he'd be fine if you sampled some of his collection. I'm fine with it as well, so long as Alfred or I are there to supervise."

It takes a second, but Tim snorts out a smirk, light-hearted. "Debra was right, you know. You really are a helicopter parent."

Bruce looks genuinely confused, as if he's unfamiliar with the phrase. Tim just shakes his head and moves closer to accept the bottle Bruce offers. "1937, huh?" the teen whistles as he seats himself on the desk beside a stack of books. "Nice."

"It ages in the bottle, too. Should be pretty good."

Tim hums thoughtfully at that, inspecting the label and debating if he should tell Bruce that the real reason he's been giving him grief the past two months has nothing to do with alcohol. The teen decides against it, but at the very least, he can cut Bruce a break. "So," Tim poses carefully, "what you're saying is that if we waited, say, five years from now—just as a hypothetical, arbitrary number—this stuff would taste even better, right?"

Both of Bruce's eyebrows rise, like if he wore glasses, they'd be slipping down to the end of his nose. "I suppose so, yes."

Tim hums again, a tad louder. "Okay then," he resolves, handing the bottle back to a surprised Bruce. "I'll tell you what. You can hold on to that for another five years on one condition: When I _am_ twenty-one, you have to promise to share it with me."

Bruce analyzes his son for a good while, looking like he wants to smile again but only lets it escape through his eyes. He settles for ruffling the boy's hair instead. "I think I can promise that."

"Cool," Tim grins, bolting off the desk with a lightness to his step as he turns. "Now, where were those ski trip photos you were talking about?"


End file.
